


Las

by IlaraTam



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IlaraTam/pseuds/IlaraTam
Summary: On the eve of her assault on the breach, Ellara Lavellan finds herself seeking solace not in the Dalish gods, but in a small chantry she doesn't understand, and a man she shouldn't get close to.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 34





	Las

The only Andrastian custom Ellara had ever known was that of Exalted Marches -- specifically, the one on the Dales, the one that echoed in every creak of an aravel and every look of anger, disgust or fear between a human and an elf. Awakening bound in chains to the screams and slaps of an Andrastian Seeker did nothing to change that impression.

It was the following morning, after the most gruelling battle of her life, green light still spilling from her palm, when all the humans of Haven knelt to her -- when only hours before they had put her in iron and spit at her shoes -- that she first realized there could be any more to it. Many of these people bowed to hypocrisy, of course, bending like reeds to each and every new breeze. But some, like the weeping mother clutching her child sobbing thanks through her tears, like the old woman in Andrastian garb who nodded to her in silence, they saw her, really saw her, saw the effort she had gone to and thanked her, because in their hearts they knew it was right.

Slowly, Ellara began to see tiny glimpses of true Andrastianism. Tiny snatches of the words they repeated incessantly morning, noon and night began to be reflected in their actions.

She always suspected that religion was what kept these people together. The only thing. Certainly nothing else was strong enough to keep the Dalish together but what shared history and culture they had left.

And so, on what she knew could be her last night in Haven, she walked her nightly stroll across the frozen lake, beneath the glorious veil of stars, and made a decision. Instead of taking the path left to her home, she continued right up the hill, the spires of the Chantry looming over her.

It was dark inside. Most of the villagers, even the attendants, had long since retired, the events of tomorrow looming large before them. But one candle still burned by the altar. One figure knelt before it, the flame glinting from his golden hair.

The Lion. Ellara knew she should have felt afraid. All her life she’d been drilled mercilessly: never let the Templars catch you. Never let them get close. Never let them know what you can do. But here she stood, of her own free will, eyes catching on the waves of his hair, the small, graceful movements of his lips as he whispered something she could not quite hear.

She drifted closer, silent as shadow, hardly daring to breathe for fear of missing a single thing.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are they who stand in sight of the darkness and do not falter.” He looked up as a shadow fell across the altar. “Herald,” he started, moving to stand.

“Oh, no, please. Don’t.” Ellara held out her hands, motioning for him to stay. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You don’t. I mean, you didn’t. I mean…” Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces, rubbed the back of his neck as his ears turned delicately pink. “Can I help you, Herald?”

All at once the absurdity of the moment hit her. She wore no shoes, cast her shadow across the face of the woman worshipped by all, and the most fearsome soldier she’d ever met was stammering at her. This place was sacred. It was no place for her.

“I … no. No, I should…” She turned to go, but as she did her shadow moved with her, and the face of Andraste glowed golden before her. She couldn’t look away.

Something in those eyes reminded her of home.

“I … I was curious,” she said instead, turning back to face him.

“Curious?” Cullen looked up at her, brows knitted in confusion but his face open. There was no fear there, no anger or disgust. “What about?”

“Well, you may have heard me mention once or twice that the Dalish have their own gods.” A tiny smile punctuated her words, and she was rewarded with the driest of eyebrow raises.

“I believe I may have heard.” But his voice was gentle.

“So you know that we never … we don’t … celebrate Andraste, exactly.”

“Tactfully put.”

“...Yes. But I’m starting to see that underneath all of the hatred and blood, on both sides, there might be … something worth giving praise to. Only, I don’t know how.”

“How what?”

“I don’t know how to pray to your goddess. Or to your god. I may not believe in them the way humans do, not in my heart. But this is their home. They give strength to people I work with, people I’ve come to know and … and care for. If a shem … if a human came to live among Dalish, I would expect them to know of my gods. So I wish to give the same respect to yours.”

It was the longest any in Haven save Solas had heard her speak at once, and for a moment Cullen simply stared at her. But then, golden light framing him, he held out his hand.

“Come,” he said softly, and smiled.

She took it and knelt beside him. He was warm, the heavy furs about his shoulders brushing against her cheek.

“It is customary to kneel,” he began, voice rumbling in his chest. “Though where you look or whether you close your eyes is up to you.”

“You don’t look at the sky? Or at her?” Ellara glanced up at Andraste, looking down on them with grace.

“Not always. It’s what’s in your heart that matters. Look where you feel you should.”

“Alright…” Ellara cast about, and settled on what was in front of her, though it didn’t feel quite right. “What then? Do you say the words?”

“You can. Often a Sister or Mother will lead the chant herself.”

“But what is it?”

“The Chant of Light? It’s…” Cullen sighed, fingers combing through his curling hair. “Truth, as the Chantry would have it. A common belief. Hope.”

“Hope…” Ellara turned it over in her mouth, her mind. “Las. That’s our word for it.”

“Las…” Cullen repeated, slowly, uncertainly, the word unfamiliar in his mouth. “That’s beautiful.”

“It is.” She looked up again at Andraste, not daring to look at him for what she had to ask next. “Could you … lead the Chant? I don’t know it, but I would like to hear it.”

“I … well, I’m no Sister…”

“I know.” She looked at him now, and he saw her. Truly saw her. A wild elf with the delicate, intricate tattoos of her people twining across her face. A mage of no small power or talent. A woman, fire flickering in her eyes.

“...Alright.” He looked away and settled himself on the stone, trying to find his center. Beside him he could feel her doing the same. He thought for a moment, hesitated. Then she felt him take a long, deep breath, and he began.

“Many are those who wander in sin,  
Despairing that they are lost forever,  
But the one who repents, who has faith  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
And boasts not, nor gloats  
Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight  
In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know  
The peace of the Maker's benediction.  
The Light shall lead her safely  
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.  
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light.  
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,  
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

Ellara sat in silence, wondering, eyes unfocused as she concentrated on the words.

“Las,” she whispered again, looking from her glowing hand up to the statue of Andraste. “As the moth sees light and goes towards flame, she should see fire and go towards Light…” Understanding dawned on her face as she looked back at Cullen -- only to find him looking at her with an expression she could not place. “It’s me, isn’t it? Even though I know nothing about any of this. For the people here, I’m a symbol of that light. And everything around us is fire.”

“Yes,” Cullen said simply, his eyes fixed on hers with surprising intensity.

Ellara nodded, trying to be calm. As stone. Like Solas would, like any hahren would. But her breath caught, and between one and the next the first tear rolled down her cheek. She pulled away to cover her mouth.

“Herald,” Cullen started, and bit his tongue as the title slipped out.

“D-don’t … please…”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He was caught between worlds, between selves. But in the dim light he saw a weeping woman, shaking from fear as much as cold. He stood awkwardly, knees stiff, and took the furs from his shoulders. As he knelt down beside her, he settled them over her arms and back.

The weight settled around her, warm and smelling comfortingly of the inside of an aravel. With small, slender hands she drew it closer around herself and glanced at Cullen. He seemed far less imposing now, though his shoulders were no less broad, nor his figure less powerful.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, a response and a plea. She drew close beside him, looking up into his eyes.

“Ellara,” she replied. He faltered, confused. “Call me Ellara. Please.”

“Ellara.” He spoke her name aloud for the first time, tasting it on his tongue.

Neither could be sure who moved first. But her hand was on his arm in gratitude, and his hand was on her shoulder in sympathy, then on her cheek to brush away the tears. They leaned into each other. And before they understood it had happened they embraced, holding each other against the dark.

His arms traced against her bare skin, one hand gently resting on the back of her head, the other around her back, cradling her. She rested there, one arm caressing his back, the other at his waist.

Tomorrow she would march on the Breach once more. Tomorrow she would put an end to the nightmarish world the Magister would make, and seal the tear in the sky.

Tomorrow she could die. It was close enough to sit coppery and wrong on her tongue. This could be her final night.

But though there were customs, rites, relics of her people she should have sought comfort in, she could think of no better place to be than here.

As he held her in his arms, feeling her trembling soothe, her hand steady on his waist, her fingertips tracing patterns up and down his back, he came to find the most profound peace. Only for a moment, but a moment stretched to eternity. An ember began to glow in the ashes he knew so well, where once raging fire had burned. He felt it, warm in his chest, and held her just the smallest bit closer.

Las, she called it. Hope.


End file.
